


there’s a devil in your smile (that i can’t deny)

by gagmebucky (gagmebabes)



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: CEO AU, Dirty Talk, F/M, FaceFucking, Praise Kink, Smut, blowjob, ceo!ransom drysdale, cum in mouth, d/s dynamics, personal assistant!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gagmebabes/pseuds/gagmebucky
Summary: “Aw, begging. That’s cute,” he cooes, words tickling the vulnerable slope of your neck. “But. . .” He sucks his teeth with a tutting tsk. “Not good enough. Why don’t you be a good lil’ plaything and get on your knees. Maybe I’ll reward you if I think you deserve it.”—in which you’re ransom’s assistant and he puts you to use.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 125





	there’s a devil in your smile (that i can’t deny)

**Author's Note:**

> did not watch knives out but i still ended up writing a ransom fic. the all powerful effect of chris evans, i must say. but also im dumb and horny so the characterization is all over the place. forgive me for that. also this got away from me and the original scene i intended to write did not happen but i do intend on writing it (as a "sequel" that can be read as a standalone - the general gist of that is reader is underneath his desk while he has various meetings).
> 
> small disclaimer: with all fictional characters and specifically ones depicted as the villain or antagonist or are generally deplorable, i do re-imagine and interpret them with a sense of morality + boundaries! usually, i prefer to communicate this through my writing rather than outright telling you but i don’t know if i supplied adequate subtext to be effective in that regard.
> 
> this was originally posted to my tumblr (@gagmebucky) but i think it’ll fit better here with having another part to be written.

The interim chief-executive-officer stares.

Slouched position behind a grandiose desk, Hugh Drysdale’s attention has diverted from his laptop screen to your awaiting stance in front of him. Assessing, his frosted gaze drags over your attire: formerly modest, now bordering on a dangerous line of skimpiness. 

Your pencil skirts usually cover your knees but underneath his direction, the black fabric barely reaches the middle of your thighs. Your conservative blouse has been left partially open, unbuttoned purposely to display your decotellagè. With a lick of his bottom lip, he finally settles on your lightly made-up face and the updo drawing your hair out of the way. 

The reticence default to his expression flickers; his leer dilates into covetous pools of darkness, while devilish approval quirks one side of his lips. Although satisfied with your apparel obedience, he’s entertained by your fidgeting and continues his examination.

In your line of work, you’re deft at gauging someone and anticipating their needs. But, _him_ , he’s unlike his predecessor and subsequently undoing what you’ve previously understood about your occupational objectives. And this is another instance. 

For reasons unknown to you, he’s come in on time—not only on time, but before you. The moment you did arrive, fifteen minutes earlier like clockwork, he summoned your presence. With the door closed and curtains drawn across a windowed wall, you can see the wicked intentions teeming within him.

A wave washes over your skin as you think of some of the things those intentions had led to. “Sir?” your voice breaks the silence breathily, unable to withhold your impatience. “Should I begin with your agenda for today?” 

His expression dims before contouring in feigned questioning. “Now, I could’ve sworn I told you how to address me, and _that_ definitely isn’t it,” he speaks slowly and angles his head. “Am I wrong, or are you just all beauty and no brains?”

Warmth rushes to your face at your faux pas, bothered by the fact that you made the error in the first place rather than his comment. “Sorry, s—Ransom,” you correct yourself, name uttered with an innate shyness. After five years of following instructions, you shouldn’t fumble like this but he’s doing something to you. “It’s just how your grandfather does— _did_ , things.”

“Uh-huh.” He snorts and arches his brow. “Enlighten me then, what part of me is confusing you with that asshole?”

“No. I. . . I - He was just keen on professionalism, and—” 

“Professionalism is doing what I say when I say it. Isn’t it?”

“Y - yes,” you answer airily as the authoritative pitch ignites in your belly. After clearing your throat, you offset the libidinous tension with what the day is awaiting. “And, uhm, Ransom, just to remind you, you have three meetings today. They’re all amended to be taken in your office, per your request. The first of which will be commencing in fifteen minutes. I also made the travel plans you wanted.”

“Well, aren’t you a productive little lamb,” he mocks and closes his laptop. He opens his mouth then closes it when his line of sight locks with yours. Abruptly, he pauses and slants his head. “You know, I like that color of lipstick you’re wearing.” A smirk stretches across his face, and he continues before you can accept the compliment. “And I think I’m gonna like it even better when it’s smeared across my dick.”

As if you needed further proof of the working dichotomy between the man who hired you and his third generation—soon-to-be official—replacement. A month in, and you’ve yet to adjust to his unconventional way of doing things. Where your job has been dedicated to business-related tasks, he’s developed a different understanding (not a _misunderstanding_ because he definitely knows this isn’t what your intended use is for).

Nearing retirement and waning health, Mr. Thrombrey believed he could instill responsibility into his daughter’s careless son in a last ditch effort to ensure his legacy is passed down in good hands. His reasoning was that by intermittently relinquishing the reins to him, it’d rouse genuine interest; he’d take pride in making money rather than simply showing it off. With you at his side, given your extensive history and knowledge of the company, it should’ve been smooth sailing. 

But, you’ve learned, he still has zero passion for the logistical side of things nor for the skills you were recruited with. Instead, he holds only one function for you.

That one function flits through your psyche; the result of which prompted your scantily-clad appearance and a lack of undergarments. You shouldn’t like it—you shouldn’t allow it but you haven’t felt this invigorated about your job in years. 

Perverse arousal lashes down your center and sears your insides like a lightning bolt. Despite your desire, you try clinging to the originally established boundaries (as if they haven’t been already crossed before). “I - I still have to reply to the emails you’ve gotten—” 

“Hm. . . _no_ ,” he interrupts with a thoughtful click of his tongue. “You’re gonna be focusing on something more important.” The rolling chair skates backward until his legs are widened apart, and his hand is palming the imprint bulging between them. “Now get over here and start on it, sweetheart.” 

“You - you know this isn’t what assistants are supposed to do,” you point out lamely like he’s heeded any of the protocols his superior enforced; all the while your body is moving on its own accord—or, well, to his accord.

“Pretty sure it is,” he retorts easily, a devious twist of his lips, glittering pools of blue watching you slowly gravitate into his orbit. “I mean, _assist_ in right there in the name and my cock is in dire need of that talented mouth of yours.”

“This - this is highly unprofessional,” you whimper halfheartedly as you cross into his territory. “It’s against company’s policy to—”

In an instant, he surges forth and yanks you into his embrace; big arms coiled around your waist, your back flushes against the defined panels of his chest until he’s straining between your ass cheeks. Looming, he cranes his head down so his lips are fanning your ear. 

“What a _shame—_ ” his voice oozes sarcasm, hardening dryly, “—that I don’t give a fuck.” The forearm braced across your hip bones swiftly snakes up your skirt, and his rough hand vindicates the wetness pooling there. “And would you feel that?” he breathes smugly. “Neither does your soaked, little pussy.” 

With a moan, you can’t help but writhe into his palm. “Oh, shit,” you gasp as stimulation ripples through your system. “S - sir—Ransom. Please.” 

A dark chuckle vibrates between your shoulder blades. “God. You get this wet just thinking about sucking me off? Wow, you’re really desperate for it, aren’t you?” His fingers harshly dig into your soft and aching sex, wringing evidential wanton moans out of you; another laugh rumbles through his chest. “Hell, yeah, you are. Aren’t you glad I don’t let you wear underwear? ‘Cause they’d be fucking ruined by now. So, you’re welcome!”

“Please. . .”

“Aw, begging. That’s cute,” he cooes, words tickling the vulnerable slope of your neck. “But. . .” He sucks his teeth with a tutting tsk. “Not good enough. Why don’t you be a good lil’ plaything and get on your knees. Maybe I’ll reward you if I think you deserve it.”

Exhilaration pumps through your veins and pings at your clit. With a zealous mewl, you sink from his lap and onto the floor between his legs. The newly imported rug caresses your shins comfortably as you perk on your haunches. 

When he first mentioned spending a couple thousand dollars on the item, stating it was a necessity, you didn’t understand it; but now, you’re grateful for the cushion during this. . . _challenging_ task. 

Your hands stabilize his thighs while your mooned gaze fixates on the jean-clad hardon pressing against his zipper. A shard of heat strikes your loins at the impending action you’ve become—and started to look forward to—accustom to. 

Before commencing, you glance up and meet his expectant expression. “The - the meeting,” you barely recall on a whimper. “It starts in ten minutes. There might not be enough time.”

At the mention of doing his job, he rolls his eyes but then spares a patronizing smirk. “I guess that means you’re gonna have to work quick, huh?” His fingers weave into your hair, yanking your head back as his face looms over yours. “And because I’m such a good guy, I’ll help you. Now, open your mouth.”

“Ransom—“ you gasp, and when your lips part, he takes advantage by sliding his thumb across your tongue. The rough pad rakes over your taste buds, ebbing into the back of your mouth until your gag reflex kicks in. But that doesn’t discourage him. 

“C'mon, little assistant. You know my cock is way bigger than this, and I know you can do better than that,” he chides. “Let me stretch your throat and _take. It._ ” The last two words bite with insistence as his index and middle finger replace his thumb. 

A natural resistance unfurls inside but you power through it and relax enough to handle the probing two-digits. Learned instincts kick in, and you control your breathing through your nose, focusing on the gratification of the act. The constrictions of your esophagus dwindle until he’s gliding in with relative ease. 

Once that happens, his eyes alight and shine roguishly. “Now, that’s a good girl,” he approves, baritone timbre like flames to the wildfire kindling in your center. His fingers retract and drag their slickness over your lips in the process. “You were made for this.” The words are matter of fact as he leans in close and admires your soft depravity. “Look so pretty. You’ll look even prettier with your cheeks stuffed full of cock.”

For a moment, you might think he’s going to kiss you but the grip on your hair cinches until you gasp, and he claims the opportunity to spit a line of saliva on your tongue. A smirk crosses his lips as he pats your cheek and settles back. “Now do as you’re told.” 

With a cognizance of the foreboding meeting, you nimbly unzip his jeans and release the hot stalk of flesh jutting against his stomach, tip twitching wetly beneath his navel. A familiar sight, you still gawk at his well-endowed anatomy; thickened with a single protruding vein along the underhead, his formidable length otherwise smooth and kempt. 

There’s an instinctive balk on whether he’d fit though you already know he does—he’s made sure of that already. The first time he did so, amid groans promising to train you, flashes through your head and creams within your center.

Carnality dripping onto the rug below, you gently grasp him at the base; your fingers barely wrap around with your thumb placed at the vein, and you can feel it pulsating angrily. You trace it upward to the teardrop translucent at the bulbous slit, grazing over the source in wonder. 

The ghostly touch tenses his muscles, including his grip on your hair; your gaze rivets up to clash with his blazing blues. “Didn’t I say your mouth, cutie?” he breathes and wrenches your face closer, enough that his spicy clean scent wafts your nostrils and dissipates into your brain in an intoxicating rush. 

A jerky nod loosens his hold. With that, you use both hands to steady him in preparation; your palms undulate his pre-cum along his length, a few strokes dwindling after the additional lubricant of your spit. Jaw slack and tongue out, you finally tunnel him into your warm, wet cavern. 

On that note, a drawn-out _swear_ reverberates from the inner depths of his soul. “ _Fuck_.” The vowel stresses, and he frees your disheveled locks, entrusting your solo guidance. “That’s right. Show me what a good little assistant you are.” 

And you do. As you burrow deeper, you bypass your gag reflex; first, testing it with his cock swallowed halfway and your hands making up the difference, then becoming ambitious with the clenched teeth, harsh growls of pleasure he tries to suppress. 

You regulate your breathing through your nose, splay your hands on his thighs and fight your throat’s protest of his intrusion. An indescribable but pleasant taste explodes on your tongue as you bob up and down, throbbing muscle chafing your buds on its way down your esophagus. 

An ache has resonated between your legs, tangible lust trickling down your thighs and possibly staining the expensive fabric below. It spurs your passion, intensifying your ministrations as if his orgasm will break the dam of yours; by the sounds of it, you’re on the right track.

The master office is laden with pornographic audio; a room devoted to business is now being rendered as a medium for debauchery. Your boss’ reluctantly audible groans mix with that of your squelching throat, occasionally choking when his hips rock in sync with your acts.

“Atta’ girl,” he moans gutturally as his hands gather in your mussed hair and pull the unruly tendrils out of your way. “You’re fucking talented. Might promote you to be my little cocksucker. You’re already trained for it. You’d like that, huh? Dedicate yourself to swallowing my cum?”

Your voice vibrates eagerly around him, extracting another unhinged groan. Fisting your updo, he helps you hasten your strokes. Practiced, you choke back your gag reflex, although water prickles behind your eyes and escapes down your cheek as your hand dives to your neglected button. That sensation intertwines with the former, and you think you could do this all day. 

“Have you considered that maybe your job should just be taking my cock?” he grits out, making you moan around him. “You do it like a pro. You wouldn’t have to think or worry that pretty little head about anything except _this—right—here—_!” 

Each syllable is punctuated with a robust thrust. Slick sounds increase as his face fucking becomes sloppy and urgent. His thickness is swelling against your tongue and down your throat with the approach of an orgasm, ruffling your hair and drenching your face. 

You blink blearily up at him through the rain of debasement. There’s something powerful about being at the helm of a person’s undoing; when it’s someone as reprehensible and handsome as the trust fund playboy, it’s particularly striking. 

His devilish mien has cracked, a peak of vulnerability as he trembles with bliss. Chest heaving guttural sounds, his eyes are primal reflects of coalescing desire, fluttering lashes long; white teeth pierce his bottom lip red, almost bloody. There’s a muscle in his neck, pulsing in time with the vein on his cock. 

Finally, he erupts and buries himself to the hilt in your pliable mouth. Both hands are secured on the back of your head, clamping you there while your esophagus constricts with obscene rasping. Like a volcano, he rumbles your name and spurts hotly down your throat until you’re gulping down glob after glob. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He’s grunting above you, feral slurs teetering incoherence. “Yes. You better fucking swallow it—don’t you dare waste a drop.” The command is unnecessary because you’re already doing so, flashing big teary eyes as he grinds your mouth deeper around him. After an animalistic noise, he falls slack and releases you. 

A trail of fluid follows your fucked-swollen lips departing from his lazily softening erection, dribbling down your neck and into your chest. Labored, you take in oxygen greedily and pant into a relaxed seiza position. Your hands lay limp on your thighs, and your heart’s jungle rhythm calms down from pounding between your ears. 

“Look at the mess you made,” your boss murmurs above you, lax in his leather rolling chair but observing you like a hawk scoping out an unsuspecting bunny. “How unprofessional. Someone ought to teach you that being covered in spit and cum is not appropriate in the workplace. Very unbecoming of a lady, too.” 

Your lips tilt. “Is that right?” you utter hoarsely. “And what would that lesson entail exactly?” 

His cock twitches, half-hard against his stomach, and your skin burns. “You clearly need to know how to clean up, and I think starting off with my cock is the best route for that. Don’t you?” He arches his brow, bristling with a second wind. “I mean, it is your fault I’m all sticky down there in the first place.” 

It _is_ your fault, you take great pride in that. “Well, I guess that’s fair.” With a hint of a simper, you allow your fingers to dance along the underside of his length. As expected, he jolts and hisses underneath his breath at the overstimulation. “Is there an issue, Ransom?” 

His eyes narrow. “Cute,” is all he says, and you resume your mission. 

Your palm curves around him, angling him upward before tracing your tongue over the shared remnants of you two. As you do so, he makes the smart decision to ground himself on the armrests. Lapping carefully at the sweet-tangy, your gaze lasers on him and that clenched jaw expression fighting the sensations deluging him. 

To your disappointment, it lasts momentarily before he adjusts and your smarting effect wanes, if only by a little. “Shit,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back. “Your tongue is fucking magic. How—”

 _KNOCK, KNOCK_! 

Knuckles on wood cut into the atmosphere and snap you back into reality. In reality, you’re the personal assistant to the chief-executive-officer, and you’ve rescheduled three meetings for him to conduct in his office; the first of those meetings was to start in ten minutes, and currently, it’s ten minutes later. 

Your mind lurches with panic, and you almost hit your skull against the edge of his desk while Ransom glances over coolly, startled but not bothered—annoyed, if you paid more attention. But you’re concerned with the actual inappropriateness of the situation you’ve gotten yourself in. Yeah, you’ve entered in a salacious arrangement with your boss but the mutual consensuality of it negates the amorality; however, being found out about this setup is not good. Not at all. 

Muttering curses, you tug at your skirt and loop your shirt’s buttons to look somewhat presentable when you pass by. Although actually, there’s no possibility of that considering your makeup is ruined. Waterproof mascara has disproved its claims by the smudged kohl on your cheeks, and artificial color has glossed beyond the lines of your lips with drool and translucent white.

(That shade of lipstick does look really good on his dick. There’s something about how it clashes with the tanned, smooth complexion.)

Nevertheless, you prepare to take your walk of shame. When your hands brace on his thighs, in time with another tap of knuckles, his eyes return to your messily picture-esque visage at his behest and he lifts an amused but questioning eyebrow.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He grabs your face gently, spanning the lower half with one hand as the other brushes stray strands from your vision; a juxtaposition of his previous handlings that careens you closer to him. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

“But what about—” As if to emphasize your point, impatience rings against the door outside of his office again. “You’re probably missing calls, and I normally should be greeting your partners.” 

“No, they’ll be fine,” he dismisses. “You don’t worry about anything other than my cock.”

“Are you - are you sure?”

“Yeah. Y’know, I’m just gonna get hard again,” he muses as his fingers absentmindedly massage the overworked muscles in your jaw, and his semi swells. “Then you’ll have to walk all the way back to fix it. So like the thoughtful boss I am, I’ll save you the trip and keep you down there ‘til I need you again. You up for that, cutie?”


End file.
